


Journalistic Integrity

by LanceTheFuckerTucker



Category: Lance Tucker - Fandom, Sebastian Stan - Fandom, The Bronze - Fandom
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Lack of parental affection, Manipulation, Oral Sex, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-09-19 01:22:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9411212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LanceTheFuckerTucker/pseuds/LanceTheFuckerTucker
Summary: You're a journalist who vows to take down Lance Tucker and his reign of misogyny once and for all. That is until your integrity is compromised as Lance preys upon your insecurities.





	1. Chapter 1

This was it. The past two weeks of work had led up to this very evening. You were going to end Lance ‘the Fucker’ Tucker and his reign of misogyny once and for all.

A flurry of women on the nation’s gymnastics team had retired over the last year or so after they ended up pregnant. Girls with potential, a future. If this wasn’t coincidence enough, it happened to girls who happened to be linked to their coach, Lance Tucker. You knew you were on to something. You knew this would take down the loathsome Olympian once and for all.

Of course your intuition was correct. Over a two week period, you collected a slew of interviews with those former starlets who had their careers cut short. It all started with Maggie Townsend. Five different girls told tales of perversion and debauchery with Tucker.

Soon enough, you had enough evidence. Your story could stand on its own, you were sure. But journalism; it was a man’s game. Your editor suggested - insisted, rather - on balance for fear of damaging the gold medalist’s reputation. You had to hear it from Lance Tucker himself. You had to interview him.

It wasn’t too difficult to secure an interview with him. Under false pretence, he agreed to meet you at a local bar. For all he knew, you wanted to write about his achievements. He wasn’t exactly wrong.

You knew the drill, having interviewed more than a few perverts in your career. You could get all the answers you needed if you just looked the part, played dumb and then went for the money shot towards the end of the interview. At least, this was what you told yourself in the cab to the bar.

The truth was, Lance was gorgeous.

Damp, icy hands began smoothing themselves over imaginary creases on your dress; the dark fabric stretched taut over your curves. Your eyes were wedded to your foot, quickly bobbing away. You admired your heels. They added extra inches to your stature, allowing you to stare into his tar black soul on an even keel as you ruined him. A small comfort as you snapped back to reality at a red light.

Lance was notorious. You had to stay vigilant.

Rolling up to the bar, you felt a pit of unease form in your stomach.

Inside the decadent joint, you darted through the revellers to find Lance propping up the bar, martini in hand. His attire befitted his surroundings. He was striking. And you weren’t the only one aware of it, judging by the amount of attention he drew. But it wasn’t his finely tailored suit that drew you in as you approached him. He was imposing. Far taller than you had anticipated. When you were face to face, he loomed silently over you and placed an immobilising kiss on your cheek. You felt inches tall.

“Well ain’t you a picture,” he muttered in your ear.

You had to work overtime to maintain your composure as you introduced yourself. “Mr Tucker,” you began in a shaky voice, “I’m the reporter from The Times. Do you mind if I record our conversation tonight?”

Lance lounged back on his stool cocking an eyebrow. “Relax, toots. We got all evening. You look like you could use a drink.”

”I-“ you began, only to be swiftly cut off by two slender fingers, beckoning the bartender.

Lance leaned into you. ”And call me Lance. Mr Tucker was my father. And he was an ass,“ he added.

You smiled uneasily. Lance was, indeed, an ass.

The bartender stood in front of you both awaiting your order.

”Tequila?“ He asked.

”Actually I don’t-“

”Two tequilas please,“ Lance confirmed to the bartender.

You quietly observed Lance as the man behind the bar bustled to get your drinks. The stench of his cologne was offensive to say the least. The sporty little wristwatch jarred with his swanky evening attire. He wore too much gel in his hair so his hairline stuck up proudly in greasy little peaks. And manspreading. You hated that too. 

You had come to two conclusions. One: Lance Tucker was so much more repulsive in person. Two: Lance Tucker was so much more handsome in person.

”Like what you see?“ Lance grinned, sliding a stout little glass towards you.

Compelled to tell the truth (kind of), you proudly declared: ”Actually, I think you’re vile.“

He was taken aback. Lance refused to accept that you, a woman, was immune to his charm. Taking a different approach, he dialled back his attitude. ”You don’t even know me,“ he said softly.

You choked on the mouthful of tequila. His eyes were piercing. How absurd.

He leaned into you again, repeating himself for effect: ”you don’t.“

You were incensed at this vile creature trying to pass himself off as a victim and was he trying to flirt with you? It was written all over your face but you had so much riding on tonight. You needed to keep calm. You plunged a hand into your bag and fumbled for your phone, buying yourself enough time to think of a response.

Bingo.

Pulling out your phone, you made your offering: ”why don’t we show my readers the real Lance Tucker, then?” Your voice was sickly sweet.

Lance tipped his glass to his lips and swallowed hard. “I don’t know who the fuck reads The Times, but ok.”

As Lance ordered two more tequilas, you set your phone on the counter and hit record, ready to grill the Olympian to within an inch of his existence.

“So, Lance,” you began with a nod, “let’s talk about your childhood.”

“Yeah, I mean I started gymnastics at the age of three. I-“

“Tell me about your parents, Lance?” you weren’t fooling around. You had done your research. His father fucked anything with a pulse while his mother ploughed all of her energy into crafting Lance’s career to a tee. 

Lance shot you a concerned look. “Why are you asking about my parents?”

“Well you wanted my readers to know the real you. I think they’d connect with you more if they knew about your tragic back story,” you pressed.

“Well there’s not much to tell,” he sighed, “my mom was your typical pushy parent. I was never good enough for her. Even after the gold. She’ll never be proud of me. I think she just hated men after what my father did… She always turned a blind eye. And then my father… when he wasn’t busy sleeping around with girls half my mom’s age, you know… Gymnastics isn’t all that masculine.” He was coy, his voice tinged with pain.

That was the first tiny steps towards the evidence you needed for your story. Somewhere in your stony heart though, you could relate to that. Your dad was an award winning journalist; overbearing but never praise giving. And your mother? She was just as bad. Her no boy rule during your teenage years had left a dent in your self-esteem causing you to latch on to any man who showed you the slightest bit of attention. But this wasn’t about you.

You gathered your thoughts and continued.

“So would it be accurate to assume that your insatiable need for female attention stems from your mother’s lack of affection? Or are you just a chip off the old block, like your father?” you asked.

You hit a nerve. He slammed glass down with a clatter. His eyes traveled your body up and down. His expression darkened, his tone defensive, “and whose attention are you trying to get?”

You backed up on your stool. Was Lance Tucker really that good at reading people?

He took your phone and stopped the recording. “You wouldn’t meet someone like me, dressed the way you are, if you weren’t expecting to gain something. Let’s be honest,” he smirked.

“I don’t you know what you’re talking about,” you said coldly.

Lance smirked: “You’re not the first reporter to try to get the drop on me. I’m guessing it all stems from your father, it always does.”

He hit you where it hurt. All these years you hid that insecurity behind big hair, tight dresses and red lipstick, taking down powerful men by flirting with them. It served you well but you hated yourself for it; you knew deep down you lacked real talent.

And now you sat, slightly buzzed from the tequila and slightly embarrassed, completely quiet. Your face was flushed and your mind was blank. Lance knew he had won. There was no way your story would make it to print now. You couldn’t fathom a response.

You snatched back your phone, holding it in folded arms.

“For what it’s worth though, you are, by far the most beautiful reporter to try it,” he drawled, leaning in close enough for the scent of lime to be burned into your nostrils. “I mean, I love gymnasts. They’re always so desperate for attention, for approval themselves. But I truly do love a girl with a little fire in her belly, you know? Like she has something to prove.”

Your inner monologue couldn’t keep quiet. He was definitely getting hit with a restraining order when this whole ordeal was over. “Can we just get back to the interview?” you asked.

As if by magic, the bartender set another two tequilas in front of you both. Lance picked his up. “One more and I’ll answer anything you want, Lois Lane.”

You nodded uneasily.

“I read your article with that crooked senator. You’re pretty good,” Lance said after a gulp.

“I thought you didn’t care too much for The Times?” you asked.

“I don’t. Girls like you belong on Fox News is all I’m saying. Brains and beauty,” he commented.

How original. It still sent heat pooling to your chest. “You’re lucky I’m not recording this,” you said rolling your eyes.

Your bravery was returning.

“So tell me more about this little power trip you’re on,” Lance sighed. He paused, resting his head on his hand, studying you. “Do you get off on ruining men’s lives?”

“Do you get off on impregnating 18 year olds?” you quipped not missing a beat.

Pleased with yourself, you downed your drink.

He hooked a leg around your stool and pulled you in so that your face was barely an inch from his. His eyes were blank pools of nothing. It was unnerving but you couldn’t stop yourself from being glued to them.

“Not as much as I get off on being worshipped like a god,” he snickered, “and I think all this tough girl bravado is a cover for what you really get off on.”

He was right. You weren’t sure if it was being talked down to like this, or if it was the tequila but you had already bridged the gap between yourself and Lance, the taste lime on Lance’s lips seared over your tongue. You felt the chill of a hand ghosting along your thigh, as you were pulled closer by another.

It wasn’t romantic and it sure as hell wasn’t pretty, but before you knew it, you were back at your apartment with Lance in tow.

He completely engulfed you, pressing you against your door, teeth and lips roaming over your neck leaving trails of red and purple in their wake.

“You’re a terrible fucking journalist,” Lance murmured, yanking the neckline of your dress lower, taking your bra with it, exposing one of your breasts.

“You’re a terrible fucking person,” you sighed, shivering as he bit down on your skin again.

Lance began moving lower, eventually ending up on his haunches. His strong, elegant hands pushed up the hem of your dress as he looked up at you. “That’s what they all say.”

Your mouth dropped open as the Olympian went to work between your legs.

Lance quickly snatched down your underwear, briefly smug at the damp spot that had formed on them. His tongue met your slick slit, lavishing it with long and languid strokes. Those strokes soon turned to ravenous sucking as he lapped your soft pink folds into his mouth. All the while his fingers left pale imprints on your hips, pulling you into him. Not that you needed him to. You were so overcome with need that you writhed over his mouth. You reached for the door frame to steady yourself.

Lance was completely wordless aside from satisfied moans as he coaxed timid sighs from you. Even though he eyed you intently, you could barely bring yourself to look at him. He loved the quiet girls the most.

You threw your head back, cursing abruptly, just as he traced a featherlight circle around your clit with his tongue. Then he began to pick up the pace, flicking the tip of his tongue over that little bundle of nerves.

But you really started to let loose when Lance slipped one, then two, fingers inside you. He began curling them forward, working in time with Lance’s mouth, stroking just the right spot inside you. You rolled your hips in response, howling in total ecstasy.

Just as your release was in sight, Lance tore his mouth away from you, his fingers still squelching away at your cunt. A needy whine escaped you.

“You wanna cum?” he taunted.

You couldn’t help but focus on the only contact your pussy was receiving. You bucked and squirmed as he slowly fingered you but it just wasn’t enough. “Yes please,” you sighed quietly, still not looking at him.

“I’m gonna need you to do a little something for me then,” he said rising to his feet.

You bit your lip, sinking back against the wall with his fingers still inside you. He loomed over you. He expected an answer.

You nodded.

He slipped his fingers away and sat himself down on the staircase, beckoning for you to kneel down in front of him. There was no love there; this was Lance Tucker in his element. “It’s not gonna suck itself,” he remarked.

He was absurd but it brought you to your knees all the same. You crawled to him.

“I’ll even get it outta my pants for you, here,” he said impatiently, undoing his zipper, his signature tattoo on display.

You wrapped a hand around his thick, veined shaft. Drawing your tongue over the underside of his, you tried to coat it with as much saliva as you could, catching salty little glimmers of precum as you went. You could understand now why so many women were just dying to fuck Lance Tucker as you eased as much of his cock into your mouth as you could possibly take. You gagged a little on the first pass as you struggled with his girth but you quickly acclimatised. He gave a contented groan as you settled into a steady rhythm, taking more and more of him each time and pumping a hand around whatever you couldn’t.

“Atta girl,” he cooed, “now look at me, I wanna see those beautiful eyes.”

His cock popped from your mouth leaving a thin thread of spit clinging to your lips. Through your lashes you looked up at him with glassy eyes. You began teasing his swollen tip with your tongue, dancing over it in swirls.

“That’s it,” he sighed, snaking his hands through your hair with a slight pressure, “keep going. Take it all the way down for me.”

Hesitantly, you began easing Lance’s cock back into your mouth, his hand still guiding your head further and further down until there wasn’t an inch left to take. You let out a muffled mewl in a mix of enjoyment and discomfort. And then his hand gripped your hair again.

Now he was in control of how you were using your mouth. Slowly pulling you up and down by your hair. He was never particularly rough, but your jaw ached. But still he lay, sprawled across your staircase, fucking himself with your mouth and making you wait.

Just when the pain was becoming unbearable, you got your first sign that Lance was nearing his climax. His breaths grew erratic, those low growls of his hitching in his throat. Not to mention his grip on your scalp had tightened substantially. He was nearly there. You could do this.

He continued to taunt you until the very end. “You gonna swallow every fucking drop?” he moaned, knowing full well you couldn’t answer through your mouthful of gold standard dick.

All you could muster was a quick, “mmmmf,” and widened eyes before great ropes of cum coated the back of your mouth and found their way down your throat.

You didn’t miss a drop. Partly because Lance made sure you didn’t.

When his grip loosened and you were free to catch your breath, you couldn’t help but see that same smirk playing on Lance’s lips.

Without a word he stood up and put his cock back in pants.

He wasn’t going to make good on his end of the bargain. This realisation dawned on you when he walked past you, two steps away from the door.

“Where are you going, Lance?” you asked, attempting to mask the need in your hoarse voice.

He paused, his back to you. “Did you honestly think I’d fuck you?” he asked with a laugh.

“What?” you questioned, the annoyance building in your tone.

“I had to make sure you didn’t publish your story. You know? The one you interviewed Maggie for?”

You never told him you interviewed Maggie or any of the other girls.

“But I-“ you began in protest.

“You can’t even quote me. You got too close to your source. It’d be unethical,” he sneered. Turning towards you, his last words were these: “If that journalism career doesn’t work out, I reckon you could make a lot of money giving head to the male gymnastics team though. How about that?”

And then he left.

The following morning you woke up. Your mouth was dry and your throat felt like broken glass. A pang of panic and a wave of shame washed over you as you remembered what you did the night before.

You compromised your integrity. Wasted two weeks of work. Had your source’s dick stuffed down your throat in your hallway.

Lance was right, you truly were a fucking terrible journalist.

You stretched your arm out towards your nightstand, picking up your phone and lazily looking through all of the interview files you had accrued over the course of researching your story.

Then you saw it. A second, longer, file from last night. It was four hours long. You couldn’t remember recording anything past Lance snatching your phone from you.

You scrambled upright and hit play on the file.

At first you heard the bustle of the bar. And then your conversation.

It was then that you realised you had unknowingly caught Lance’s admission.

But you couldn’t use it. It was unethical.

Plus you sucked his cock on your staircase. You were sure that was on the file too.

You skipped the file on. It was.

You were confronted with a dilemma that could secure your journalistic glory or finish it completely.


	2. Unrestricted Access

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With competition season coming up, your boss forces you to use your powers of persuasion to convince Lance Tucker to give you access to the gymnastics team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S BAAAAAAACK!

You knew full well that you were a terrible journalist, but that didn’t mean you were an unethical one. On the contrary, the file from the night when you got a mouth full of gold standard dick, courtesy of gymnastics playboy, Lance Tucker, lay buried. Unused and unheard by anyone but you. Six folders deep in your laptop, your scathing exposé on Tucker’s shenanigans with his now pregnant protégés was shelved for now. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t get back at the smirking sleaze ball in small ways.

Ok, maybe you were a little unethical. 

Competition season was soon upon the gymnastics squad, and, as always, Lance had his girls keeping tight lipped with regards to the press. Despite your standing within the sports reporting community, you couldn’t even get one single interview. Your editor was heaping pressure on you to get a scoop, maybe end a few careers in the process. You know? Uphold the basic fundamentals of good journalism at the expense of ethics and appropriate practice. So you came up with a plan. 

“Hello?” Lance’s voice crackled over the other end of the line.

“Hi Mr Tucker, it’s that cute journalist from The Times who sucked your dick, remember?” you said, your voice sounding saccharine sweet as you glanced over your shoulder to see if any of your colleagues were listening. 

“I wouldn’t call you cute but yeah, I remember you. You gonna take me up on that offer I made you? The one where you service the mens’ gymnastics team and give up on journalism completely? You know you're hopeless at it, right?”

You laughed at the absurdity. “No, I’m actually looking to make you an offer.”

“Look, I know I’m fantastic, but I’m in really high demand right now. We have a couple of new girls on the team that I’m yet to put my dick in…”

“Lance, I understand you’re busy but it’d be really great if we could meet for lunch. I’ll make it more than worth your while.”

“Fine. There’s a diner around the corner from the gym I usually train at. How long will it take you to get there?”

You looked at your watch, trying to gauge how bad the traffic would be at midday on a Tuesday. “About fifteen minutes.”

“Right, I’ll see you there and we can talk about this deal of your’s.”

“Great, thanks Lance.”

“Yeah yeah.” Then he hung up.

Without hesitation, you grabbed your keys and walked over to your editor’s office, poking your head around the door. 

Mr Gold was just as skin-crawlingly slimy as Lance Tucker, except he was nowhere near as attractive, nor did he have the charm and charisma of Lance. He was a stout, sweaty newspaper journalist who, when he got the post of editor, practically glued his bottom to his desk chair that was beginning to buckle under him after twenty years. “You better get that scoop for the sports pages soon,” he grunted, not even looking in your direction.

“I’m on my way to meet Lance Tucker right now to talk about access, Mr Gold,” you reassured.

“Like he’s gonna give you anything.”

“Sir, with all due respect…”

Mr Gold leaned back in his seat causing it to creak loudly. He waved his stubby-fingered hand to stop you mid-sentence. “By all means, carry on. It’s your career. Go and meet with this Lance Tucker. If you’re lucky, you might end up like all those other girls on his team.”

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours, Mr Gold,” you said through gritted teeth.

You drew up outside Dino’s Diner with five minutes to spare, your heart racing in your chest. Your eyes darted towards the rearview mirror checking your hair, and your make up. Even though you hated Lance Tucker with a passion, somehow you found yourself wanting to look good for him. Perhaps it was because the journalist in you knew that this was the only way to get what you needed from him. Or perhaps it was something more, a most unspeakable attraction. 

You had stolen a minute too long to yourself. 

Shattering your small slice of peace, a car pulled up on your right, obnoxiously blaring music at full volume. You peered over at the driver. There, wearing his team USA uniform and a pair of red mirrored aviators, was Lance. He smirked over at you.

You huffed and exited your car.

“Last time I saw you, you had a mouthful of dick and mascara running down your face,” he boasted, arrogantly wandering over to you.

“What’s your point, Lance?”

“Well I’d like to say this is an improvement, but I prefer you on your knees.”

You nodded sarcastically, “yeah there’s a difference between sucking dick and actually being one.”

“I wouldn’t get on my bad side today, Lois Lane,” he said, opening the door for you and smacking your behind as you walked by.

You had to bite your lip to stifle a yelp. Determined not to make a scene in front of everyone in the room, you walked briskly towards a vacant booth and sat yourself down.

Lance followed, but instead of sitting across from you, he sat down beside you. You were trapped, forced to have your senses assaulted by his rather aggressive cologne and the mint on his breath that made your eyes water from that proximity. To make matters worse, he draped his arm over the back of your seat, totally invading your personal space. “So what about this offer you were gonna make me?” Lance asked, whispering in your ear.

You kept your sights trained straight ahead of you, not willing to believe you were about to do this. You spoke quietly. “What would I have to do to gain access?”

“Is this for that stupid article you were writing, because I don’t think anyone’s going to buy it without an admission from the man himself?”

“No, I mean coverage for your upcoming competitions,” you said, turning to him, “and besides, I have something on you. I wouldn’t get fresh with me, Mr Tucker.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“There's a file sitting six folders deep on my hard drive that could end you.”

"Still not buying it," he said, shaking his head.

You tilted your head with widened eyes.

Lance paused for a moment, thinking. Then he seemed to come to a conclusion in his mind. “Alright, I’ll give you unrestricted access to the mens’ and womens’ teams. You can be embedded with the team, anything you want,” he smirked.

You furrowed your brow at how easy that was. “At what cost?”

You were interrupted by the waitress. Her name was Angie, you knew her. She always looked far too happy to be working in a dump like Dino’s. “Can I take your orders, please?” she beamed.

“Uh yeah, we’ll have two coffees. Black,” Lance said, paying her no attention and keeping his eyes trained on you. His hand was now resting on your thigh and moving upwards.

Angie looked at you and you nodded, confirming the order, despite the fact that you hated black coffee. 

When she walked away, Lance continued the conversation, his eyes were dark and his hand was now fumbling at the waistband of your skirt. “So anyway, I’m willing to offer you unrestricted access if you give me exactly what I want, when I want.”

Your cheeks flushed instantly. Barely able to get the words out, you stuttered: “I don’t know what you mean.”

Lance widened his eyes and nodded, his hand returned to your thigh, giving it a rough squeeze. “I think you do.”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

Lance moved uncomfortably close. His voice was low. “No you don’t. It’s a one time offer and I know your career depends on it. You can’t say no.”

Lance was right, you couldn’t say no. You needed that access and if you had to cater to Lance Tuckers’ every whim, then so be it. 

How bad could it be?


	3. Community Property

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your optimism about being Lance's personal source of entertainment is short lived after an incident on the team's bus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short, I just started a new job and I have a couple of other projects on the go over the summer, so I've been kind of burned out recently. Hope you all enjoy!

In the back corner of the team’s bus, you were forced to ride out the four hour road trip through the early hours of the morning, sandwiched next to Lance Tucker. 

The prospect of being at his beck and call over the next few weeks filled you with immeasurable dread, however, the promise of unrestricted access to both the men’s and women’s teams ensured your job security. Perhaps even a promotion to sports editor for The Times. But that was long term, you only really wanted Mr Gold off your back for the time being. This gig, away from the office, guaranteed you that much.

The first hour of the journey was uncomfortable at best as you attempted to ignore Lance by listening to music and staring intently out of the window. But he was a difficult man to ignore; you could feel his growing frustration at you lack of interest mount with each passing minute. 

And then he made things even more difficult. 

Flicking out one of your headphones, he swooped, invading the bubble you had built around yourself to keep him out. “Remember our little bargain?” he whispered in your ear while his hand surreptitiously crept under your skirt.

Your body tensed in response to his touch but you still managed to glare at him.

“I’m bored. Maybe you should entertain me, like you promised you would,” he instructed.

“Not now, someone might see,” you said quietly, nodding towards the row of sleeping male gymnasts next to him. 

His expression darkened. “You don’t get a choice in the matter,” he growled, “now spread those legs for me or I’ll offer you up to everyone on this bus.”

Despite the chilling fear that spread through your body, you swatted Lance’s hand away from your leg, turning your attention away from him. 

Lance truly was ruthless, but you doubted very much he would be stupid enough to tell the entire bus about your sordid little deal. You couldn’t risk it though. Resolving to give in to Lance’s demand, you reached into your satchel, pulling out the hip flask full of whisky you had stowed in there. You took a few gulps and then a few deep breaths. Then you glared at him again. He was wearing one of his ridiculous, sarcastic facial expressions, waiting expectantly. 

"Ok," you sighed.

“Good girl,” he purred, taking your hand and drawing it over the bulge in his jeans. "I assume you know where to go from here," he said.

Your hand roamed over his thighs and back up towards his zipper where it came to rest. You looked up at him nervously. He simply nodded down at you, chewing obnoxiously on his gum. Undoing his jeans, you took his cock in your hand and glanced around you to check if anyone else was watching. Then you leaned over to swipe your tongue along his shaft before taking as much of his length in your mouth as you could. You hoped you could make quick work of this.

“That’s it,” Lance murmured, “I made a good call bringing you along.”

Bringing yourself up off of him, you felt compelled to offer a sassy retort. “Anyone would’ve though you wanted me and no one else sucking your dick, Lance.”

Lance smirked and bit his lip before grabbing a fistful of your hair to force your mouth on to him again. “Thought I asked you to entertain me? Huh? You can’t do that when you’re yakking. You're so fucking boring.”

You spluttered as the tip of Lance’s cock repeatedly jabbed at the back of your throat, causing your eyes to water and your mascara to run. Between not throwing up and breathing, your reservations about being caught were pushed to the back of your mind. The whole situation you found yourself in was, quite possibly, the most interesting thing to happen to you in your journalism career and slowly you felt yourself getting into the ruthless face fucking Lance was giving you. Your free hand slipped into your underwear that was now soaked through as you moaned against Lance’s cock.

“You like that, don’t you?” Lance asked, yanking you off his cock by your hair, “Bet that little cunt of yours is so fucking wet for me.”

You nodded, red faced with strings of saliva dripping from your chin, your fingers spinning circles over your clit.

“You're so fucking desperate," he muttered, "Take those panties off and get on my lap."

Without a second thought, you shed your underwear straddled Lance, your skirt bunching up around your waist. 

Lance’s hand pawed at your pussy making you writhe against it. “Fuck, you are desperate,” he taunted, “you want more?”

“Yes please, Lance,” you mewled, clawing at his shoulders.

Lance let out a sadistic laugh and brought his hand over to his cock to run it through your folds, coating it in your juices. 

Even this made you moan as you quickly buried your face against his neck to stifle your cries once he began easing you down on to him. 

Of course, Lance pushed you back upright on him as your hips kicked into motion on his cock. “Let me see those tits of yours,” he groaned, unbuttoning his shirt and yanking down your bra, “it’s been so long since I’ve fucked a girl with jugs like yours.”

You were almost totally exposed now, picking up the pace as you fucked Lance, your breathing quickening too. If one of the athletes next to him woke up at that very moment, you didn’t think you could bring yourself to give a damn, not while you were enjoying the attention Lance was lavishing on you, between thumbing away at your clit and sucking on your nipples. Not to mention stretching you so deliciously around his cock. You could feel your legs being to shake as you rode Lance. You were close. You couldn’t contain those expletive filled moans, that threatened to wake up all the sleeping athletes on the bus, anymore.

Lance, on the other hand, had stamina. He was quiet as he enjoyed the view, occasionally growling or biting his lip or smacking your behind. 

It was one of those short, sharp smacks that sent you over the edge and your teeth sinking into Lance’s shoulder to keep yourself quiet.

That was when the young gymnast next to Lance began to stir. In your current state, his name eluded you and you couldn’t bring yourself to stop fucking Lance until you had finished him off. All this, despite the wave of embarrassment rushing through you when he spoke.

“What the hell’s going on?” asked the gymnast.

Lance looked at him and smiled wickedly. “Let’s just say I brought along some stress relief for the whole team.”

The gymnast cast his gaze over your form, still slowly fucking Lance. Then he looked back at Lance again.

“She’s pretty good. Free for everybody to use,” Lance said, giving the gymnast a nod, "go on, give one of her tits a little squeeze. She loves the attention."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, folks!


End file.
